When I hug you
I reach through
generations—
The round faces and
olive skins,
the old eyes in
our repeat kin—
of worn and weary
bones and bending
far from God.
(the archetype of ages)
My aching arms
absorb the trauma
of the missing mamas
and the drunken
papas
and now I’m clutching
my father
but a child
and I scarce can take it in.
I’m there. But here.
It’s imprinted in our veins and
is an echo
in our brains.
When will be the end of
The Curse
and the parade of hearses
and the babies born with
forgotten verses tattooed on
their hearts,
only to break, and mend.
and break, and mend.
Until then,
I’ll squeeze with all my might
and cauterize
the family wound.
